Olivia and Peter
by Red-Handed-Bandit
Summary: "You've got to imagine how you want things to be. And then you can try to change them." - Peter Bishop


She can't seem to find her sketchbook. A small fact with little to no consequence. But she misses it, and she needs it. For comfort or for entertainment she doesn't know, but it feels important.

Olivia wants to say something about the book. To her mother maybe. To see if she'd be willing to go out and purchase a new one. But the idea is quickly lost, as is the reason why the sketchbook meant so much in the first place. It is replaceable. Something she has replaced many times before. But something, some little fact or memory, desperately wishes for her to find the book. To remember something she has forgotten.

And so she asks Dr. Walter if he has seen it. She asks Nick if he has hidden it. Both deny the fact, having neither seen nor taken the sketchbook.

Olivia could have sworn she had given it to Dr. Walter. The night he had spoken so sternly with her stepfather. The night she slipped away into the field of white tulips. The night she met Peter.

Perhaps he knows where the sketchbook has gone.

When Olivia asks Dr. Walter where the boy is he gives a tight-lipped smile. There is no indication as to where Peter may be, or if he is in possession of her sketchbook. Perhaps she imagined Peter.

But she had never been one for imaginary friends, and he seemed too real to be that of her imagination. Rachel was the one who played with invisible children, not Olivia.

Again, she asks of the boy. The one who seemingly disappeared into thin air. Again, Dr. Walter brushes off the questions, mumbling about concentration and focus. He occasionally asks how home is, and she returns the sentiment with her usual response. Silence.

The emptiness within the pit of her stomach soon fades, leaving only numbness in its wake. Half memories steal her sleep, and words left hanging echo through hallways. His face disappears only days later and the sketchbook remains missing after several weeks of looking.

Olivia and Peter, sitting in a field of white tulips. It sounds like a nursery rhyme. She wouldn't be surprised if it is. But he had spoken to her, said something that had meant so much at the time.

When her stepfather has too many drinks, empty beer cans strewn across the floor, the memory seems foreign. More dream than reality.

Her mother sobs from the bedroom, the door cracked slightly. She's begging, pleading with her husband to stop. The neighbors would call the police.

Olivia keeps close to the wall, peering into the dark room despite her growing fear. Despite how frightened she is. She wishes she could do something, anything, to tear the man away from her mother's side. To keep his hands firmly at his sides.

Even with her stumbling thoughts, her attempts at concentration, nothing prevents his hand from coming down on her mother. A crack causes the collapse, and she lay on the floor clutching her nose. Blood pools between her fingertips, dripping thickly onto the carpeted floor.

He storms out then, barreling past Olivia who huddles beside the doorframe. He doesn't see her, and the front door slams. The car's engine revs.

Olivia stoops to her mother, pulling tissues from the nightstand to stem the flow of blood. Her mother cradles her, pulling her daughter close to her chest. Olivia feels the stroke of her mother's hand through her hair. Calming. Comforting. Loving.

She can hear a voice attempting to find its way out. Fighting against the restraints her mind has carefully put into place. And Peter is back. Fighting to speak the words she's struggling to remember.

And the cut of an engine registers. The key in the lock clicks. She stands. Footsteps on tile ricochet through the house, the quiet faltering for a breath. The drawer is open before she realizes the gun in her hands.

_You've got to try something, right?_

Her mother doesn't notice until the sound. Her stepfather doesn't notice until the pain.

He lies on the floor, blood seeping through shaking fingers. His eyes flutter, struggling to stay awake through the pain, through the loss of blood. And he holds her gaze, even and cold, a slight smirk pulling the corners of his lips. Waiting, _daring_, for the third shot. For her to finish what she has started.

But Olivia can't. The gun is too cumbersome, too slick between her fingers, trigger too heavy to pull back. It slips from her grasp, crashing against the floor. His eyes close.

She does not cry. She does not run. She does not scream. There is nothing to feel, nothing to fear. For she has tried. And she has remembered. And that is why she will never forget.

* * *

I just recently completed the series and needed to get this little fic out of my head. I've got another idea set during Season 4.

Thanks for reading c:


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